Michael Reyes

MReyes DescribetheFauna


Michael Reyes is a Xicano poet and VONA/Voices participant, with work anthologized in "Coiled Serpent: Poets Arising from the Cultural Quakes and Shifts of Los Angeles" by Tia Chucha Press. He works as an arts and culture journalist and in various capacities in the non-profit field inspiring students to be confident readers and writers. A graduate from UCLA with degrees in English and Chicana/o Studies, Michael has also mentored and taught writing to pushed-out high school students and researched the impact of in-school creative writing programs. 

Mami, Curly Hair

I always believed

Super Mami's hair

was a force field,

her nopalito green eyes

laser beams.

And I still do,

sit next to her

in silence, sometimes.

Because she doesn’t

always know that

silence is thoughts

becoming poems.

Her presence calm,

but wild at the ready.

Like my childhood scribbles,

her black hair.

Curly, warm,

nice to put your nose into

when she holds you

and you feel safe,

and dare to dream,


Each insecurity

a super human power.

The scar across her belly,

smiling when she sits.

The time she said metal fillings

allowed me to chomp through anything.

Anything imaginable.



Cholo Spiderman

That scar, smack on your wrist, primo, looks like a
sliver of stomach inner lining--sick. An explosion of
nerves building upward. But believe me when I say, I
swear you’re Spiderman. A fall down the stairs and
now you’re a web-shooter.

You got a gift, primo. Masking yourself. You jump
off trees without fear. Roam streets like alleycats. A
Spiderman sniffing out trouble. But your getup,
primo, is baggy white tee hugging your knees. Oh,
how they got it all wrong. A big softie, after all.

Remember when you spoke emancipation?
Separation from your mother as much as you wanted
back your father. You were sure of it, walking streets
and alleyways, me at your hip like sidekick.

And you eventually created it for yourself, the
emancipation you wanted. You’ve come to know
separation, primo, like you know trouble. You’re
lonely, real lonely. A disguise. Tell me that’s not


© The Acentos Review 2016